User blog:Squibstress/A Slant-Told Tale - Chapter 6
Title: A Slant-Told Tale Author: Squibstress Rating: MA Genre: Drama, romance Warning/s: Explicit sexual content; violence; abuse; alcoholism Published: 23/05/2017 Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling. Chapter Six 13 February 1945 It had been weeks since Bridie McLeod had been startled by the arrival of a house-elf in the middle of the night. As a midwife, though, she had learnt to become a light sleeper, ready to snap fully awake at a moment’s notice. A moment like this one, if the excited state of the Macnair-family elf was any indication. “Please, Madam McLeod … my mistress is telling me to fetch you. The young mistress, her time is come, she says.” I doubt that, thought Bridie. They always call me too early with the first ones. And young Madam Macnair is still—she made a quick mental calculation—six weeks before her time. Still, Bridie thought, best to go now. You never knew when a babe would decide to make an early appearance, and those eager ones often needed a bit of help in the hours and days after being born. Besides, the Macnair family paid well for her services and expected her to jump when they called, which she was happy enough to do at these prices, even in the middle of the night for what was most likely a false alarm. “All right,” she told the elf, moving with long-practised speed to put on her work robes. “Tell your mistress I’ll be along in a tick.” The elf nodded gratefully and popped away. When Bridie arrived at the Macnair manse, she was surprised to find Minerva hanging heavily on her mother’s shoulders, her concentration apparently focused deep within herself. It’s the real thing, then, early or no. When the contraction had passed, Bridie approached the young woman, asking, “So, it looks like your babe is anxious to make an appearance. When did the pains start?” “About four hours ago,” said Minerva. “We waited to call you, as you instructed, but they’re getting closer together and stronger.” Bridie nodded her approval. “How close?” Minerva looked at her mother and said, “About six or seven minutes apart now, I think.” Madam McGonagall nodded her agreement of the estimate. “Good. Why don’t I have a look to see how far along you’ve come?” Minerva assented and lay down at the edge of the huge, overly ornate bed that dominated the room. When she had finished her exam, Bridie helped Minerva sit up, telling her, “You’re about four-tenths of the way along.” Seeing her young patient give a look of dismay, she added reassuringly, “Now, that’s good progress. We’ll see this babe before the next sundown, I’ll wager.” Just then, Minerva was gripped by another pain and groaned aloud. Bridie quickly helped her to stand, and encouraged her to lean over against the bed while she rubbed the girl’s lower back with a strength that would have surprised anyone but another midwife. “Steady breaths now, Minerva—don’t hold it,” she said soothingly. “Let the pain take you with it, don’t fight it.” Bridie McLeod’s long experience did not fail her: Gerald and Minerva Macnair’s fine son was born just after four o’clock on the afternoon of the feast of St Valentine, weighing in at just over half a stone and healthy as you please. Not at all what one would expect of a babe born more than a month before time. That wasn’t what surprised Bridie, however. She’d attended many a “premature” birth not seven or eight months after a young mum had first walked down the aisle, and that went for pure-bloods as much as it did for halfies and Muggle-borns. No, what the midwife found most interesting was the fact that in the throes of hard labour, young Madam Macnair had called out not for her husband, or even her mother, as most of the younger ones did, but for someone named “Albus”. That, and the fact that the infant had neither his mother’s pitch-black hair, nor his nominal father’s dirty blonde, but sported a perfectly formed head covered with a fine dusting of reddish down. Very unusual, in Bridie’s experience. It pointed to the inescapable conclusion that the babe’s father was not Gerald Macnair. A conclusion that had not, it seemed, escaped the child’s maternal grandmother, who had stayed with her daughter throughout the fifteen hours it had taken to see the newest heir to the Macnair fortune safely and noisily into the world, and had heard the girl crying out for a man whose name wasn’t her husband’s. Once she had finished ensuring her daughter was tucked up contentedly with her baby, Glenna McGonagall drew Bridie aside, speaking in a whisper. “Madam McLeod, I would appreciate it—my daughter and I would appreciate it—if you said nothing about anything you might have heard Minerva say during her pains. As I’m sure you know, women are sometimes a little out of their heads in childbed and will say the oddest things. I trust we may rely on your discretion?” She held out a small pouch that contained, Bridie was certain, a Galleon or two to help her remember to keep her mouth shut. Bridie was offended, as she always was when offered a “gratuity” to keep quiet about something that might prove embarrassing to one of the families she served. She would never betray the privacy of a woman under her care. Never. She had dedicated her life to nursing women through the various joys and trials of being female, and it insulted her sense of professional integrity to suggest she needed a financial incentive to keep a confidence. “Please, Madam McGonagall,” she said, keeping her temper well in check. “There’s no need for that. I never repeat anything a woman says during her labour. As you say, it means nothing. Only a fool would repeat it, and only a greater fool would credit it.” Glenna McGonagall appeared relieved, and Bridie added, “And I don’t think you need worry about young Master Macnair drawing any mistaken conclusions about the boy’s appearance. He doesn’t strike me as the conclusion-drawing type.” The two women smiled in mutual understanding. “Now, for anyone else, you just tell them the midwife says hair colour and the like are unpredictable in young babies. It’ll change as he grows, like enough. And if it doesn’t, by that time, everyone will be so used to him the way he is, they’ll forget about how he should have been.” Madam McGonagall looked as if she’d like to kiss the midwife, who simply gave a small bow of her head and went back to see that her patients were fine and getting to know one another comfortably. 19 March 1945 Well! What have we here? thought Reggie Crabtree when he saw what had come through the door to his shop. Business is looking up. Business along Knockturn Alley had been miserable for the past week, thanks to those Ministry blokes that had been poking around and asking too many questions; even the whores who made up the bulk of his regular customers had stayed away this week. But the woman who had just entered his apothecary was clearly no whore. Or at least, not one of the ones from the Alley’s several brothels. She was dressed expensively, if conservatively, and held herself with an upright carriage that Reggie had seen in some of the younger girls but that he rarely observed in them after they had been at their trade for a few months. This woman was older and had clearly never had the life nearly beaten out of her for some frivolous infraction of house rules. “How may I help you, madam?” Reggie asked when she approached the counter. “I understand you are a purveyor of rare potions, is that true?” Reggie was surprised by her accent; the rolling Highland brogue was curiously incongruent with the woman’s deep-brown skin and dark eyes. Before hearing her speak, he would have pegged her for an Indian. Of course, it could be a glamour, he thought, but if it is, it’s a very good one. Eyes and hair were easy enough to do, but changing one’s skin colour was a feat beyond the Transfiguration skills of most of the witches he knew, even the ones who worked in the speciality rooms and had to change their looks regularly to suit their clients. “Yes, madam,” he replied to her query, “I flatter myself that I am known for my skill in brewing some of the more … esoteric potions.” For a moment, he was concerned that she might be a member of the Auror corps, but his instincts—which had served him well up to this point—suggested otherwise. Besides, Reggie was very careful not to trade in potions that were out-and-out illegal; his core business was in those brews that prostitutes needed regularly and that other people were too embarrassed to ask their fancy Diagon Alley apothecaries or Healers for. He reserved his skills with Darkish potions for a carefully selected and well-paying clientele. He would let the woman make the next move, he decided, and if she wanted a Dark potion, he would send her away. The ones who were serious always came back, and the initial rebuff often served to sweeten the price they were willing to pay. “I am looking for this potion,” the woman said, passing a small slip of parchment across the counter. Reg took it with a small bow of his head and looked it over. Interesting. Not too difficult, but not in regular demand, and definitely considered not quite on the up and up in polite society. But not necessarily Dark. “I would be able to brew this, I believe,” Reg said, careful to use the conditional mood. “But I would need some assurances first.” It was a good sign that she didn’t blink. “What assurances, Mr Crabtree?” “First, that the potion is intended only for consensual use. To give it to someone against her will or without her knowledge would be a serious breach of law and ethics.” “The potion is for me,” she said blankly. Oh, ho, a whore after all! Now it began to make sense. She was a whore, all right, but not from one of the Alley’s houses. She was someone’s private courtesan, pampered and well-cared-for, by the look of her, but not free. Here at someone’s insistence. He almost felt sorry for her, then he reminded himself that we all have our curses to bear, and she was luckier than many if hers came with fine clothes and a warm place to sleep. “Very well, madam. Next, I would need to be certain that you are fully acquainted with the effects of this potion.” “I am. It renders the user barren.” You’d think she was talking about a headache potion for all she seems to care. Interesting. “Very good,” he said. “Then I would need an assurance of discretion.” He hastened to add, “There is nothing illegal in brewing this potion, but you understand that my business is dependent upon my reputation, and there are people in certain quarters who would look askance it my purveying it, even for the most innocent of reasons.” “I shall tell no one,” she answered. He gave another bow of his head. “Then there is the question of price …” He allowed the phrase to dangle in the air for a few moments. “The ingredients are not cheap …” “I understand. Do you have an estimate?” What to charge? That was always a delicate question when dealing with an unusual potion, especially for an unusual customer. He looked her up and down without appearing to, sizing up her ability to pay. She gave no indication of desperation, but the request itself suggested a certain urgency. He decided to set the price high; she looked as if she could afford it, and if she couldn’t, well … Reg wasn’t averse to taking out the difference in trade. It was a service he provided for some of his regular customers when they were too cash-poor to afford what they needed when they needed it. Nobody could blame him, he often told himself. He never forced anyone, and besides, it was the only way the likes of him was ever apt to enjoy the comforts of female attention. He wasn’t wealthy or connected enough—not by far—to make up for the ugly scarring that marred his face and shoulders. No woman had ever looked twice at Reggie Crabtree since the accident in the Hogwarts potions lab that had cost him both his left eye and his place at the school. When he thought about the lifelong loss of companionship his youthful mistake had cost him, he sometimes wondered if he hadn’t already paid enough for the death of the other boy that dark night in the school dungeons. “I will need eight Galleons. Four in advance,” he told the woman, allowing himself to switch to the indicative to convey good faith. “In advance?” “Yes, madam. It will take me several days to brew the potion, and I will first need to procure those ingredients I don’t currently have in stock.” “I see,” she said, opening her bag and withdrawing a leather pouch. “When do you estimate it will be ready?” “If I am able to procure the ingredients within the next day or two—which I fully expect—the potion should be ready for delivery by Friday.” In truth, he had all the ingredients on hand, but a deposit was always a good idea, and he had found that it paid to exceed a client’s expectations. He would have the potion ready for her on Thursday. “Very well,” she said, holding out four gold Galleons to him. “I shall return Friday … say, late afternoon?” “That would be fine, madam. Unless you would care to let me know where I might contact you—in case I am able to finish the potion sooner?” “No, thank you,” she replied. “Friday will be fine, Mr Crabtree.” He bowed his head again, and she left his shop. Watching her go, Reggie had a feeling he would have his full payment on Friday and that the comfortable sacks of black-beetle eyes in his shop storeroom would lie sadly uncrushed that afternoon. He also had a suspicion it would be the last he ever saw of his mysterious customer. ← Back to Chapter 5 On to Chapter 7→ Chapters of Slant-Told Tale, A